Page 142 of The Truths We Burn

And yet, the boy who’d watched his mother burn alive right in front of him, he was the antagonist. He was Lucifer. He was the villain.

Not tonight.

“G-God, pl-ple-ease,” he grumbles, asking for service from a holy spirit while he’d been committing such hellish acts.

It’s hypocritical, and it pisses me off.

“He isn’t listening,” I grunt, taking one end of the irons and starting to wrap a figure eight around his crossed legs. “He has left you to deal with me now.”

Once I’ve looped them around enough times, I slap the padlock over the brackets, locking them into place. I look down at my work like a proud Eagle Scout who had just scored his first knot badge.

I stand over him one more time, my feet on either side of his body. Just watching him as he shakes with tears, rocking his head back and forth, silently pleading with me, my eyebrow cocks, and I scoff as I see a large wet stain spread across his jeans.

“Are you ready?” I ask, tilting my head playfully. “Hell has been waiting.”

Backing away from his body, I turn around as I hold the other end of the chains in my left hand, feeling every single bit of wickedness as I make my way to my bike.

Once I get there, I click the grappling hook that is connected to the end of the links on the frame of my bike, looking back at him just to see what he looks like intact one last time, before I climb on and start my engine.

Adrenaline pounds against my skull like a drum. My legs vibrate with the force of what’s beneath me. I briefly glance to the side, seeing all the guys leaning against the chain-link fence, watching me with unwavering stares.

I look ahead of me, to the four turns in the track, knowing Cain probably won’t survive one lap but silently hoping he does so his suffering is prolonged.

Twisting my wrist backwards shoots fuel straight to the engine, and my bike propels forward. It takes only a few seconds before the slack in the chain gives, and I can feel the weight of Cain’s body being dragged behind me.

His screams last longer than I expected, but I drown them out with thoughts of her.

The other night I’d allowed myself to be soft. In the hushed space of that moment, my guard had fallen completely in front of Sage, and a part of me wished I could stay there for longer. Inside the cracks of the chaos, where there was a sense of peace.

I could still feel her warm skin pressed firmly into my body as we stood in the kitchen. It wasn’t sexual. It didn’t even feel physical.

It was something deep, deep inside of me that was being coaxed out, comforted by the smell of her freshly washed hair. It was the closest I’d ever been to forgiveness. And even though it would take more than one shadowy night in a kitchen to heal my inner wounds, to help me overcome my demons and learn to forgive myself, it was enough at that moment.

However, I couldn’t stay there. Not forever. I don’t live in a world where that was possible.

It didn’t matter what we were. What had happened that night or how soft I’d been. Because right now, I’m every single bit of my reputation. A grotesque, vile soul that’s starved for vengeance. That’s all I care about.

Making sure no one would ever taint her wings ever again.

My breathing is erratic by the time I cross the finish line, slowing to a stop where I’d once started. My pulse jumps inside my throat as I knock the kickstand down, leaving the engine purring.

Cain’s body had rolled as I drove, bounced, and ricocheted off the pavement from the force of the pulling. I’m surprised to see all of his limbs still attached to his torso. As I draw closer, I can see just how much damage the unforgiving payment had done.

A long, thick trail of blood and skin marks the path behind him, winding all the way around the track. Portions of his scalp are peeled away from the bone, sagging from his head. I bend down, examining his trembling and disfigured form.

His clothes had been yanked and shredded from the road rash; uncovered flesh had been singed from the friction. A part of his tibia had splintered through the skin, the fleshy white bone punching out. Extensive patches of torn tissue and muscle are dispersed across his entire frame, but I can still see his chest trying to rise and fall.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but the human body can only handle so much. If I could, I would repair him over and over again, just to find new ways to tear him apart.

“P-Pl-Plea…” He gurgles, suffocating and choking on the crimson liquid that pours from inside his lungs. Drowning.

A surge of victory washes over me.

Silas had asked one thing of me.

Make him beg for it, and I’d done just that.

I’d brought him through so much misery that he’s imploring for death, but as Thatcher likes to say, death must be earned.